


Morning in Chicago

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Arthur are absolutely in love with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning in Chicago

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohmyloki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyloki/gifts).



> A fluffy gift, nothing more, nothing less.

Eames wakes alone.

The morning light filtering through the window is cold and gray, but under the white, rumpled sheets it’s warm, so Eames stays put and blinks to adjust to the faint light.  The room smells like citrus and lavender and it’s so easy for him to close his eyes and just breathe that Eames thinks he might fall back to sleep.

Still, he swings himself out of bed and rolls his shoulders and neck.  The floor is very cold under his feet, and he jolts as he presses down, standing.  There’s a robe on the floor by the bedside table and he dons it quickly, eager to fend off the cold as much as he can.

The sound of running water from the kitchen draws his attention, and Eames slowly leaves the comfort of the bedroom.

Arthur is already dressed, the bastard.

“Morning,” Arthur says, tossing Eames a smile.  Eames comes up behind him and buries his face in the crook of Arthur’s shoulder and breathes.  Citrus and lavender, the undertones of Arthur’s cologne.  He might fall back to sleep standing up.

“I’m making tea,” Arthur says.  He continues to go on about his business even as Eames arms snake around him, pulling him close.  Eames watches as Arthur takes the kettle off the stove at the first shrill whistle.  “Preference?”

“Black,” Eames says, as he always does.  He feels rather than sees Arthur smile.  Arthur reaches above his head to the cabinet without so much as looking and comes away with the appropriate tin.  He places a bag into the mug, already out on the counter, and pours water over top.  The smell of the tea hits Eames--black, earthy, with just a touch of spice--and he smiles.

Eames relinquishes his hold on Arthur to snag the tea.  Arthur chuckles a little and uses his new freedom to cross the kitchen to retrieve his own cup of coffee.  It’s likely his second of the morning.  Arthur has always been an early riser.

“Thanks, love,” Eames says.  He lets his tea steep for a few minutes in silence, then fishes out the bag.  He smells the tea and takes a tentative sip.  It’s still far too hot to drink all at once.  “You make it better than I ever have.”

The corners of Arthur’s eyes crinkle as he smiles.  “You always say that,” he says.  Arthur’s voice is a silk whisper and Eames loves it.

“Mm,” Eames says, walking over to where Arthur stands on the threshold of the living room, “but it is better.  It's made with love.”

“That it is,” Arthur says, a smile splitting his face wide.  Eames wraps both arms around Arthur again and positions his chin over one of Arthur’s shoulders, so he can continue to drink whilst holding Arthur close.  Arthur takes a drink of his coffee and leans back against Eames.

“I think I like Chicago after all,” Eames says.  “I might have to stay another day.”

Arthur hums low in the back of his throat.  “Dear Mr. Eames,” he says, his voice a mockery of seriousness, “you've been saying that for two years.  I should charge you rent.”

Eames laughs and drinks his tea.  “I like to think that I earn my keep.”  He nuzzles Arthur’s neck, careful that he doesn’t smear tea all over Arthur’s pristine shirt.

“On second thought, I do believe you do,” Arthur says, craning his neck to give Eames better access.

“Good morning, love,” Eames says finally.

“Good morning,” Arthur says back.  He’s looking out the window at the far end of the living room, the one that stretches from floor to ceiling and overlooks the city.  “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Eames says, “you didn’t.”  After a pause, he asks, “Do you know what you’d like for breakfast?”

Arthur makes a noise.  “Hadn’t thought about it.”

“No?” Eames asks.  “And here I believed that you planned for everything.”  The remark earns Eames a nudge in the side, and Eames just laughs.  “I’ll see what I can whip up, shall I?”

“I’m depending on it,” Arthur says back.

His eyes lingering on Arthur, Eames steps back into the kitchen.  Within moments, he has the sleeves of his robe pushed up and a space on the counter cleared.  The oven vibrates as it comes to life.  Flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cranberries, apricots, just a little orange zest, butter, and buttermilk; Eames assembles his ingredients, aware as he always is of Arthur watching him from behind his coffee.

Eames mixes the dry ingredients first, then cuts in the fruit and the butter, and adds the buttermilk last to make a sticky dough.  He kneads the dough a few times, then divides it in two.  He shapes each half into a round, then cuts each into six slices.  He finishes just as the oven beeps to tell him it’s hot enough to use.

Eames loads his pastries into the oven, smiling softly at the appreciative whistle Arthur gives him when he bends over.

“I aim to please, love,” he says.

“Then you can mark yourself a success,” Arthur says back.  Once, Eames might have mocked him for sounding so utterly besotted, but now he just winks and goes back to work.  He whips up an icing from some orange juice and confectioners’ sugar.  Arthur went mad over preserves last summer; they still have jams and other such things stashed everywhere, so Eames cracks open a jar of blueberry preserves.  Eames himself prefers the blackberries, particularly since Arthur made it a personal mission to rid the stuff of every last seed, but Arthur’s always loved blueberries the best, and Eames, by his own profession, aims to please.

Soon, the scones are out of the oven.  Eames ices them while they’re still warm.  The icing dribbles everywhere and makes a perfectly wonderful mess.  Arthur sets out the plates and Eames pours them each a glass of orange juice, and they sit down to eat.  Arthur licks his fingers clean as the icing drips down onto his hands as he eats, and Eames slathers his scones with butter and jam.

“Say what you will about the tea,” Arthur says before he starts on his second scone, “but these never taste the same when I make them.”

“I’ve got a secret ingredient,” Eames says, “same as you.”

“How about this, then,” Arthur says.  He’d sound the perfect businessman were it not for the icing at the corner of his mouth and the smile dancing in his eyes.  “I think we can make a deal.  I’ll let you stay for free if you promise not to run out of your ‘secret ingredient’.”

Eames wipes away that drop of icing and licks it off his own thumb.  “We’ve got a deal, love.  It wouldn’t mean anything without you.”

“I love you, too, Eames.”

It's really that simple.


End file.
